When Freshmen Save Seniors
by TheOwlMoth
Summary: After Heather M. is mocked in the school assembly, a young, unknown freshman sticks up for her.


**I love Heathers. I really do. This is a story I wrote a few months ago (like the one I published earlier today) and it's a work I hold dear to me, so I figured, why not publish it? **

**Heather M. is really the sweetest one, we can all agree on that. So what happens when she gives in to pressure and is somehow saved by a victim? **

**Note: I do not own Heathers. The only character I own is Anna.**

"What's your damage, Heather?"

Heather Duke's voice ripped through the silence of the Westerburg High gym like a bullet whizzing through a cobweb. No one dared to even open their mouths, let alone move in Duke's presence. When people say power comes in all shapes and sizes, she was the perfect example, as she was shorter than most students of her grade, yet she held the highest respect and control of the school's social hierarchy. This was the reason everyone was gathered in the gym—futile Ms. Fleming, the counselor of the school, had tried in vain to keep the children collected for the assembly that was supposed to convince them to avoid bullying and suicide. The counselor herself was also speechless, and was struggling to keep balance on her heels.

The green-dressed Heather glared at the girl her interrogation was aimed at. Heather McNamara, a well known girl held in some of the highest regards of the school's social horror, glanced down at her feet, which were encased inside of heels that rose two inches off the ground. She was younger than Duke, yet she was slightly taller, even without heels, and intimidated by her, which she found odd given the childlike persona she often masked herself with to remain with the best regards among the powerful popular students. McNamara wasn't known to have been sad, or even fearful by her peers. She always wore the sweet, unassuming smile and gave no one any hint of negative emotion by wearing honey yellow attire. But being younger than most of the kids in the popularity congregations, she felt that she should have shown nothing but that she was still in her youth and hid the fact that she was quite possibly depressed, or even autistic, traits generally not well received by Westerburg's nightmarish social hierarchy.

"Are you saying Westerburg is not a nice place?" Duke pressed further, inching closer to McNamara sharply. "Where's your school spirit? You don't deserve to wear our school colors!" Duke's tone was one of mockery, shame, like an immature adult beating a child with heavy words that killed his motivation and courage. McNamara continued her silence.

Ms. Fleming broke between the two Heathers, forcing Duke a distance away from Mac. "Now, let's not—"

"Why don't you hop in your little lifeboat and catch a gnarly wave over to Remington!" she sneered harshly, peering past the counselor's shoulder and piercing the other Heather with her deriding gaze. The students erupted in either protests or laughs of delegation. Everything about Heather Duke's face just screamed ridicule.

Ms. Fleming extended her arms in panic, trying to settle the kids. "Alright, everyone! Hold it down—"

A random girl in the mass of students stabbed out her finger at McNamara, who was on the verge of breaking down. "Aw, look! Heather's gonna cryyyy!" she pointed out in a condescendingly taunting voice, and the crowd made equally condescending "awws" to tease the poor blonde.

Heather buried her face in her hands and dragged her curled hair over her eyes. Her face grew hot and wet, and her mouth dried like a slug in a desert. The waves of taunts and teasing washed over her, a barbarous tsunami of condescendence, one that couldn't be stopped with the strongest motivational barriers. Students joined the girl who teased Heather in pointing their fingers, an egregious red spotlight in her world of cruel tenebrosity.

"Stop, stop! Please!"

An unfamiliar voice, somehow more empowering than Duke's, swept over the derision, silencing them at once. Pushing through the crowd, an unnamed freshman girl with voluminous, waist-length brown hair and innocent chestnut eyes shielded by glasses panted and tried to make her way to McNamara without harming anyone else. She was roughly 5'2, and looked like the typical geek some of the admired kids higher on the social ladder would have picked on regularly. Her face was slightly roundish, almost like a baby's, and she wore an outfit quite similar to McNamara's, only pearl white in color.

The girl swaggered past Ms. Fleming, then Heather Duke, and clung to McNamara's waist without saying another word. Her eyes shut firmly, and some students could have sworn they saw water rolling down from her eyes, liquid diamonds of despair. The counselor stood frozen, for a moment, until the gym burst with teasing once again.

"Ohh, look, another baby crying!" a jock sneered, shoving his way roughly to the front of the crowd to get a better view of the freshman. Other derogatory names of the same category, such as crybaby, drama queen, and snowflake were tossed around, aimed directly at the brunette. Some people even referred to her by the more frequently used names.

"Bug-eyes! Geek! Nerd! Loser!"

Duke approached the pair of girls and unleashed a brief, acute cackle. "You stupid whining idiots!" she scorned, her tone a bizarre mixture of fury and amusement. "Are you both gonna skip class and cry in the bathroom? It's no wonder the popular people outside of me even pay no attention to you, you stupid freshman."

It was quiet for a few seconds. "Leave her alone," the freshman, who was barley shorter than Duke, said quietly, defensively moving in front of Heather McNamara. Her brown eyes were so filled with trauma already, so afraid and soft, as more water lined up at her tear ducts to prepare for spilling. "Is it really worth it to talk down to a friend . . ?" The freshman spoke in a thoughtfully solemn way that displayed no anger, and would normally change the present mindset of any despotic person—but the students of Westerburg continued their jeering.

"Why don't you just go back to the janitor's closet like where you're always shoved into?" Duke retorted, physically conveying to the girl how threatening she was. "Before your little rear is kicked off—literally."

She bent down a little to match the other brunette's height, a gesture just minacious enough to send the freshman meekly backing up into McNamara. "That's what I thought," Duke finished.

"Enough is enough!" Ms. Fleming snapped, sharply striding over to them. She glared harshly at Heather Duke and the other students were silent. "You are suspended, young lady, you're the primary reason for all of this!"

Heather McNamara felt a soft pressure on her palm. She looked to her right, and the freshman was squeezing her hand with her smaller one, clearly desperate to try to distract herself from the collapsing peace, as if there was any left. Heather felt a spark of guilt glint within her. She'd spent years with the popular kids, the ones with the most influence over the common students, talking down to freshmen primarily, and any other geek or glasses-wearing child who was just going along with his or her day—and now, one of those students, one that fit into all three of those categories, had just stood up for her, in front of the (presently) most relentless and popular bully in the school. Heather had no idea what to even do or say to the brunette, as she was stuck in an awkward situation in front of the entire population of Westerburg High.

Without warning, the freshman gently took McNamara away from the crowd, trying with all her might to ignore any arising rumors and to not get pushed over by a senior. The girls exited the gym assembly through the back doors, leaving Heather Duke and Ms. Fleming inside an awkward gap where students had been watching like a bull fighting audience.

Mac so badly wanted to talk to the heroine. But she just led her through the empty hallways of the high school, not acknowledging the fact that she'd just practically prevented a suicide from happening. They journeyed in silence, passing empty classrooms and offices, until they reached the contaminated school bathroom with a feminine symbol on the door.

The floors were tiles and speckled gray, with weird and colored stains from who knows what all over the walls and toilet stalls. The mirrors by the sinks were also dirty, looking like they hadn't been touched by maintenance in quite sometime. No one else was in the bathroom—hardly anyone, especially girls, even dared to step foot in the bathrooms, as they had quite a bad reputation for being filthy.

Heather and the brunette walked to a sink together. The latter turned on the cold water and beckoned Heather to come forward.

"Here," she finally whispered softly. "Wash your face."

Heather obeyed; she cupped her hands and the running water filled up to the brim, then she splashed over her cheeks, eyes, and brow. Her foundation was going to rinse off, but that was the least of her worries at the moment.

"Why did you . . .?" Heather was still hardly able to speak. Of all people, why would a random nerdy freshman be the one to step forth and stand up? Why would one of the victims of senior bullies decide to help one?

Heather wiped her face dry and turned. "Why'd you do that . . ."

The freshman faltered shyly before speaking again. "I can't remain mute forever. I can't just—I can't just let people be talked down to, I can't let people be . . . Hurt, hurt at a place where we're supposed to be good to one another." Her voice quaked, and her eyes seemed to melt into tears. "This place is . . . horrifying. I'm so tired of seeing equal students harassed and . . . traumatized, by kids who have nothing better to do and want to feel powerful."

She stopped officially, waiting for a response from Heather. Heather had no idea what to say, still. But she knew exactly what the other girl was trying to tell her—about the horrors of Westerburg High, the fear and status-based social hierarchy, it was all traumatizing to a poor, pure, fresh mind. Indeed, what she said about power was true, over half the popular kids had quite the superiority complex.

"I just wish we could all get along."

The words came from Heather. Something clicked within her, like two magnets of opposite poles, one popular and beautiful, the other nerdy and stuck under the looming shadows of the high status. The popular people weren't ones to take an affinity towards freshmen, but Heather knew that this particular one was different from the rest. Something about her was different. Something.

"I honestly hate Heather," said Heather, with a mild tint of anger. "She's so mean." She faltered. "You're right. Everyone really is talked down to."

The freshman began to form what Heather could only conceive as the faintest hint of a smile, and nodded. It was almost miraculous that a popular girl understood that the social hierarchy of the high school was rather daunting and unfairly cruel to some, especially freshman who wore glasses and carried books around, easy targets for the senior boys to pick on, or even harass, if they were desperate enough to scare a girl into maturity.

"If high school was a little more than a blocked cave of rocketing expectations and students who have growth spurts every month . . ." The brunette gulped. "It'd be beautiful. This place could be beautiful, but only we can really make it that way."

"What's your name?" Heather asked suddenly, making the freshman girl jump.

"Anna," she said quietly. "My name is Anna."

"And I'm—"

"Heather." Anna looked at her feet and her face went from bright grins to a petrified frown. "I know."

Something was wrong, but Heather could not quite tell what it was.

"Your green friend has not treated me the best. I know all three of the original Heathers," Anna told Heather, smoothing her short skirt. "You, her and who I like to call 'Big Red'."

Heather sniggered at the humorous nickname, before returning to a straight face. "Wait, what did Heather do to you . . ."

"Most notably locked me in a janitor's closet for a school day. I didn't get let out until an hour after the last bell rang, when the janitor unlocked the closet to clean the school." Anna shook her head, as if she had a migraine sprouting in her head. "And . . . I haven't told anyone this at all, but she also shook off the football linebacker by—" She groaned— "She shifted the linebacker's attention to me, and it wasn't a good experience. I had nearly a dozen bruises on me after he attacked."

Heather frowned. "I'm so sorry," she meekly mumbled, tapping her index fingers together. "Is there anything I can do to . . . You know . . . Make up, or—return the favor?"

Anna stroked her chin thoughtfully, then extended a hand to Heather. "Having a friend would do."

The blonde's eyes seemed to shrink. A real friend? One that wasn't outrageously rude or dominant? A freshman?

Well. . . . Anna did, in fact, save her from public embarrassment and harassment in front of the entire school, risking what little reputation she had left.

Heather faltered before taking Anna's hand, and they performed a swift hug. She didn't care that her new friend was an inferior—at least she had a real one.

**Heather M. is the one I feel like would secretly be nice to freshmen behind the other Heathers' backs. Not all upperclassmen are mean to freshmen. I should know, I am a freshman myself. Please criticize this story in any way possible, I really appreciate it and will not call it hate. **


End file.
